He turned toward the garden path, his back to her now. The morning light spilled across his shoulders, catching on the edge of his plaid, making him look like something carved from both light and shadow.
“That’s all, then?” she said, before she could stop herself. The question came out smaller than she’d meant, softer, as if she’d just confessed something instead of asking it.
He stopped but didn’t turn. “Aye. That’s all.”
Catherine’s pride sparked before her heart could answer. “Aye, well. I’m glad tae hear it.”
He looked over his shoulder, and for one heartbeat she thought he might say something real, something that might undo all the walls between them. But instead, he only nodded once. And then he walked away.
She stayed pressed against the wall, her palms flat to the cool stone, her pulse pounding like she’d just run from battle. The wind caught the edges of her gown, lifting them slightly, the world suddenly too bright, too sharp. She felt absurdly aware of everything—the weight of her hair against her neck, the place on her waist where his hand had been, the hollow ache that his leaving had carved in her chest.
Catherine swallowed hard. “Damn him,” she muttered under her breath.
She pushed herself off the wall and began to walk, each step deliberate, though her legs felt unsteady beneath her. The garden stretched before her in gleaming colors, sunlight glinting on every wet surface, as though mocking her turmoil.
She should have been angry. Shewasangry. He had no right to speak to her like that, to touch her, to look at her that way, to leave her standing there trembling like some foolish girl. And yet anger wasn’t the only thing burning in her chest.
She hated that she could still feel him, that she could still hear the quiet rasp of his voice when he’d said her name, low and rough, as though it belonged only to him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Three days. That was all it had been, yet it felt longer. The keep had returned to its rhythm, but for Aidan, time itself had turned strange. Every hour seemed both too quick and too slow, every sound sharper than it ought to be.
He’d kept his distance deliberately. It was easier that way. Since that morning in the garden, since he’d felt the warmth of her skin beneath his hand and seen the challenge in her eyes, something in him had been unraveling by degrees. He’d walked away because he had to. Because Tòrr’s sister was not a woman he could afford to want.
And yet wanting her had become as involuntary as breathing. He saw her everywhere and it had grown into a quiet torment. She was always near enough to sense, never near enough to touch.
So he stayed busy. It was his only defense.
The storms had left their mark across the glen—fields drowned, fences washed out, streams spilling their banks. Reports had trickled in for two days: ruined stores, families displaced, the smallest of the outlying villages cut off entirely. Duty was a welcome distraction, and he clung to it like a man grasping for rope in deep water.
By dawn, the Council had gathered, maps spread across the table, the air thick with the smell of wax and smoke.
“The lower stream near the village has overflowed,” Bruce said, tracing a finger along the inked edge of the map. “It’s taken half the bridge. Two cottages gone. The families are camped on higher ground.”
“And the road?” Aidan asked.
“Blocked, but passable if we bring tools. We’ll need men tae help clear it.”
Aidan nodded, already calculating. “We’ll send a party tae the shore. Ten men wi’ shovels, rope, and timber. Have them ready by noon. I’ll lead them meself.”
Bruce hesitated. “Ye sure ye should go yerself, laird? The ground’s still unstable.”
“All the more reason tae go,” Aidan said. “The men work better when I’m there. And I’ve nay patience fer sittin’ idle.”
Gordon, leaning against the doorframe, smirked faintly. “Aye, we noticed.”
Aidan ignored him, rolling the map tight and sliding it beneath his arm. “See that the carts are loaded. We’ll ride at first light tomorrow if the weather holds.”
He dismissed the room shortly after, his tone clipped and composed, the matter settled for now. The scrape of chairs and the murmur of boots against stone followed as the men dispersed, leaving the long echo of command behind them.
Aidan rolled the map beneath his arm and strode out of the council chamber. There was work to be done. By the time he reached the yard, the air was alive with motion. Men hurried between wagons and stables, the clang of iron tools and the low thud of hooves filling the morning. The scent of wet earth and smoke clung to everything, a reminder of the storm’s aftermath.
“Check the harnesses,” he called to one of the grooms. “I want nay loose straps when we ride out.”
He crossed to the blacksmith’s corner, where two men were fitting iron bands around the wheels of a supply cart. “Have ye finished mendin’ the spades?”
“Aye, me laird,” one of them replied. “Sharpened and ready.”
